


Rope Burn

by bookjunkiecat



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Case Fic, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, M/M, Oscar Wilde's trial, POV John Watson, Period-Typical Homophobia, Period-Typical Racism, Victorian Attitudes, Victorian Sherlock Holmes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-14
Updated: 2017-04-14
Packaged: 2018-10-19 00:23:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,963
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10628298
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bookjunkiecat/pseuds/bookjunkiecat
Summary: In the year of Our Lord 1896, John Watson, being recently widowed, has returned to his bachelor abode with Sherlock Holmes. They are experiencing a lack of cases until one warm summer afternoon a mysterious "Mr. Smith" arrives with a sad tale of deception, theft, blackmail and extortion. Can Sherlock Holmes turn the tables on Mr. Smith's blackmailer? Why does Sherlock seem to have a personal stake in Mr. Smith's secret? What exactly is causing John's shortness of breath? How often can they call one another dear?(This is NOT part of the Abominable Bride universe)





	

**Author's Note:**

> While I have avoided any use of derogatory terms (aside from the unpleasant phrase "darky") please be advised that this was written with period-appropriate viewpoints on many things including gender, race and sexual orientation. I feel very tender and protective of this story and I hope it pleases. I would greatly appreciate any feedback or constructive criticism.  
> Please forgive any mistakes, as always I am self-edited and I wrote, edited and am now posting this all on the same day so I might have overlooked something.  
> Also, this was my first case fic, so be gentle!  
> I have not read ACD's Sherlock stories in many, many years so my phrasing may not be exact, and I did only mild research so period details, geography, etc. are a bit fly-by-the-seat-of-my-pants. The case of Oscar Wilde and Lord Arthur is sad and very in-depth and layered but I only touch on it briefly.

         It was inevitable that at some point in our long association, Holmes should have occasion to fulfill the role of doctor, and I, patient. What I could not have foreseen was the astonishing outcome of my need for medical aid.

        The event which precipitated this occurred in the summer of 1896; a strangely quiet and subdued criminal populace failing to provide much in the way of distraction via the request for our services by Scotland Yard, we had to resort to private clients for our entertainment. And yet even these seemed to be thin on the ground.

        Since the untimely death—and miraculous revivification—of my good friend, had provided much fodder for the popular press and my own modest stories, clients had been clamoring at the door to 221B. Cases and mysteries aplenty had filled our days and nights, but now with the onset of warmer weather, even these seemed to depart. I myself found plenty to do, between my medical practice and polishing up my memoirs; but my dear friend languished in ennui.

        I flatter myself that I am a fit companion for a man as brilliant and dynamic as Holmes, although I am aware that I am most deficient in certain areas. While I may not always be able to lend the same ferocious brain-power to a knotty problem, still I do in some ways, he has been pleased to assure me, provide a most necessary foil to his own mind. My more sanguine character is also called into play quite often, when dark moods overtake my sometimes morose companion.

        Sad though was the passing of my dear wife, Mary, and dark though my own moods at times proved to be; in the end the support and kindness of he whom I am pleased to term a friend did bolster me in those dark days. At last resolved to close the bittersweet chapter of my life when I was a husband, I departed my little nuptial home and returned to the cozy fug of our bachelor quarters.

        Many was a night we two sat by the fire in our rooms, quietly enjoying our pipes and discussing the cases that he solved so brilliantly. Days we were both busy with our own pursuits; mine, medicine; his, the bending of that fine and electric mind upon problems at once so vast and yet so quotidian that no other could have solved them. In the evenings we came together, dining upon the repast which our good landlady Mrs. Hudson provided. She is a mundane but wholesome cook, and while her dishes do not inspire, they fulfill the need for fuel for many a late night.

        As always, I have been honoured and pleased to participate in any small way with which I could to enable the more facile mind of Holmes, and not only discussions, but indeed often action would be required. It gives me something of a feeling of my return to the days in Her Majesty’s Army to pocket my pistol and dash after those long legs into danger. Never have I hesitated to follow him into any situation, and pray God I never will.

        This brings me to our current situation. It was two days prior during which the events began; Billy dashed breathlessly up the stairs to announce that there was a man wishing to call upon the services of Mr. Holmes and were we in?

        “Of course, Billy, of course!” Holmes said impatiently, waving a languid hand. Those fine, flashing eyes kindled beneath brows that had been beetled. I knew whereof that curdled expression led. Much though I longed to be of use, there was not always aid to be offered when one of his grim moods fell over him. In fact, at times he bid me irritably to leave him alone and “take my cheerful face” from his presence. I was gladdened to see that the prospect of a client had brightened him, and I put away the letter I had begun to an old school chum.

        “At last, Watson,” he remarked, sitting upright in his armchair, looking every inch the brilliant and energetic man he was. “A client!”

        “Do you wish me to give you privacy?” I asked, already knowing the answer. My polite offer was waved away and I arranged myself comfortably in my own armchair, which was turned so that I could observe both my friend and our client.

        A heavy tread was heard, accompanied by a puffing, and a stout and prosperous looking gentleman hove into view, mopping his florid face with a silk handkerchief. His thinning dark hair was oiled flat to his scalp with Macassar oil, but even so it displayed a tendency to curl; and with his beetled brows and olive complexion he had the appearance of an irascible genie.

        “Mr. Smith,” Billy piped with a cheeky wink; he was well accustomed to the many “Mr. Smiths” and “Missus Joneses” which came to call.

        “Mr. Holmes?” The gentleman inquired, looking anxiously between us; clearly not a devoted reader of _The Strand_ magazine if he could fail to differentiate between Holmes’ lean, aesthetic frame and my own more athletic one.

        “You have come in search of Sherlock Holmes, and you have found him,” Thus did my friend answer, a brow rising on his arched forehead. “I see that you have heard of my reputation for solving the un-solvable, and yet you mistrust that I will be able to perform the miracle you seek.”

        “Not the only one who thinks you are possibly a charlatan,” the man snorted, leaning heavily on an ebon cane, his dimpled hand clutching tightly at the gold knob. “All this bunkum in the papers is no doubt made up nonsense, intended to sell more papers.” He glowered at me, as if I alone were to blame for false news. I perceived that he had heard of my own efforts and had lumped me in with the most yellow of journalists.

        “And yet if I were merely a charlatan would I be able to tell that you have lately come from Kent, on the early morning train, that your wife is away from home and that your valet is cheating you?”

        Our guest gobbled incoherently, his face turning puce. I watched with no small degree of alarm, as his prodigious weight was a cause for concern to a medical man.

        “Furthermore,” Holmes continued, steepling his long, slender fingers beneath his chin and regarding our visitor calmly, “Would I know too that you spent a sleepless night, dressed in a hurry and neglected to mail the post which you had intended on sending out this very morning?”

        “Impossible!” Having found his voice he seemed incapable of anything further, merely repeating the word several times, and blotting his sweating face with his overworked handkerchief. Concerned for his overwrought state, I fetched a glass of water and pressed it upon him. He muttered that a brandy would do him a damn sight better, but I ignored this and returned to my chair.

        “Not at all impossible for one who knows how to observe,” my friend said. “Watson? Would you like to do the honours?”

        I sat up straight, flushing with pride, “My very dear Holmes, are you sure?”

        “Of course, dear fellow, I think you’re ready.”

        My cheeks warmed at his praise, and I applied myself to impressing him. “The valet is easy to attribute to the fact that the polish on the gentleman’s shoes is sub-par quality, and nowhere near the level of standard I perceive our guest to enjoy in his personal grooming. Due to his girth, he is unable to view his own footwear, however, and thus his valet pockets the difference in price between the requested and the provided polish.”

        “Excellent,” Holmes murmured, and I went on, barely able to keep from smiling. Our guest was speechless with indignation.

        “The gentleman’s wife is not at home or she would have never let him leave his home with the remains of his breakfast on his shirtfront.” Smith craned his neck to see past his double chin and swiped at the egg which had set in on his gleaming shirtfront. “The sleepless night is simple, the gentleman is visibly exhausted and careworn, his eyes are bloodshot and glassy and he clearly needs rest.”

        “Wonderful, wonderful!” Holmes ejaculated, clapping softly. “What else can you deduce, Watson?’

        “See here—“ started our guest, but Holmes waved him to be quiet and I continued.

        “Now, as to his dressing in a hurry, I believe it is the only thing that could account for his cane and watch being gold, but his cufflinks and tie pin being silver.”

        “Brava!” Holmes cried, “Watson you are coming along nicely.”

        “How did you know he came from Kent?” I asked, leaning my elbow on the arm of my chair and cupping my chin in my hand; my hand covered my mouth so that he would not see the pleased smile which threatened.

        “The letters in his coat pocket,” Holmes smiled, and stroked a finger over his lips, blue eyes bright as he regarded me. I had the uneasy sensation that he knew just how much his praise had meant to me, and that I was trying to hide my elation. “They bear a return address in Kent only they have not been posted yet—an action which was forthcoming as there is a postage stamp upon the gentleman’s cuff— which leads to the conclusion that he lives in that district and had letters to post but which he failed to do in his hurry.”

        “Remarkable eye!” I cried in admiration, “As always you see more than I.”

        “You are too modest, Watson. If you would apply yourself you would be able to observe the same.”

        “If you are quite done,” our guest growled, pounding one massive hand on the arm of the sofa, “I have come to you for help! Not to have my personal life scrutinized.”

        Little did “Mr. Smith” comprehend that this was precisely what he had let himself in for when he approached the great Sherlock Holmes for assistance.

        “Forgive us,” my friend said smoothly, “Pray tell us what has brought you here—aside from the contents of those letters.”

        Smith paled, his face, which had been suffused with heightened colour went quite ashen and he clutched at his side. I leapt to my feet in alarm and dashed a bit of brandy in a glass, hurrying to press the glass to his lips. He brought trembling hands to grip it tightly and sucked greedily at the offered liquid. I cautioned him to slow down and he choked and then sobbed, scrabbling for his much-abused handkerchief and pressing it to his face.

        “Good God, Holmes,” I said, “The man is overcome by some strong emotion.”

        “Compose yourself,” he said sharply, “I cannot help you if you come over faint at the mention of a letter.”

        Others might think him cold, but I know that at heart he is not unfeeling. It is easier for him to approach matters rationally, and I did not take him to task. Perhaps, after all, he has the right of it, as our visitor did need to calm himself before his overworked heart came to some harm.

        Whether it be the brandy or the sharp tone, he at last brought his shaking hands to his lap and twisted the silk in his grip. “I am—I am at the end of my rope, gentlemen! What I have to tell you is a strange and sordid tale, and I will see your disgust at the end of it. Forgive me if I hesitate to share with you the dastardly—“

        “Less theatrics and more truth,” Holmes bit out, eyes sharp. “We are not here to judge you. Present your case and I will decide if I can be of assistance or not.” His voice softened but by no means was he kindly. “You are being blackmailed, are you not?”

        Gasping for air, he gripped the cloth in his hands, twisting it tighter, “I am! Oh, Mr. Holmes, I am indeed in the grip of a most foul character. Certain events from my youth have come to light.”

        “Tell us these facts, calmly and plainly.”

        After several false starts he at last embarked upon a strange tale indeed.

        “In the year 1864 I came to this country—I am not a native Englishman, as my cultured accent would lead you to believe, being something I have worked assiduously to achieve—and I quickly settled in London. For several years I worked as a clerk in a shipping office, saving my money and trying to better myself. It was a poor, pinched life but I had hopes for better times. To my great good fortune I caught favor with my employer, Mr. L—of H—and Bros.

        “He was a generous mentor, seeing in me something of himself in his youth. After several months he invited me to his home to dine with his wife and daughter. I fell instantly in love with her, this pure and beautiful angel—she was the pinnacle of all my dreams of womanly beauty!—and imagine my amazement when she returned my love. Her mother was not happy at the prospect of our union, but her father, my employer, saw promise in me; and as he had no natural heir, he groomed me in that guise.

        “In time he gave his permission for me to marry his sweet girl and we entered into wedded bliss. These last thirty years have been years of joy and rapture for me, but alas, they were also years of torment. Gentlemen, for every day I have been happy so too have I been miserable! I lived in fear that the mistakes of my youth would catch up with me and my sins become known!”

        “Good Lord!” I exclaimed, much shaken by his fervor, “What was it that you feared so?”

        His pale face quivered with an excess of emotion, “I am coming to that, sirs, but forgive me if I falter. I was born out of wedlock, in a rural community where everyone knew who my father was—and more importantly, who my mother was.” His shaking hands rose as if he would wipe away the past but then he let them drop and continued.

        “My father was a landholding man of some means and importance. He had already a wife and children, but he did not let that stop him from fathering more children with other women. Poor, humble women with no recourse but to submit!”

        I was aghast, sickened at the thought of a man who would so abuse women with no one to protect them. Glancing at my friend I saw that he too seemed moved, but I knew his every expression so well that I could tell at a glance that he already had some idea of what was to come. I applied myself to listening to the story, so as not to miss a word.

        “My mother was one of these women,” he went on, “Young and poor and lovely.” He looked at himself and smiled sadly, “At one time, if you would believe it, I was a dashing and comely young man. But my mother, oh she was truly beautiful. Sadly, her beauty was a hindrance to her circumstances.” He took a deep breath and looked from Holmes to myself, “She was a slave—a house slave in my father’s home. He abused and tormented her, forcing his attentions upon her…I was the result of that horrid situation.”

        “My God,” I said softly, thinking with horror of what she must have had to endure. I rose and refilled his glass with brandy, bringing it to our guest, who looked up at me with mute thanks.

        “My mother was herself the product of a union such as the one she faced, and she was lighter skinned than the others—I was lighter still. For those that did not know…I appeared white. It was a blessing and a curse, as I walked a no-man’s-land.

        “Despite the hopelessness of her circumstances, she raised me with love and dignity, even going so far as to beg my father to educate me. Any child born of a slave was also a slave, and for him to educate a slave was a crime. I’ve never quite understood why he did it—not out of love—oh no!—but I received lessons in reading and arithmetic and it was these that helped me later on.

        “When I was a young man war was declared and within a few years a law was proclaimed, freeing me and my people. It came too late for my mother, who had died of a wasting disease the winter before. Deciding that I could not bear to remain any longer, I left in the night, making my way north toward what I imagined would be a kind of freedom I could never enjoy at home.

        “Once in New York I attended a school for former slaves, learning history and geography, and something of science. I was first among the others, since I had already learned to read and write, and how to do sums. Nights I worked on the docks, watching the ships come and go. So many people were disgorged from the bellies of these great ships, people coming to seek a fresh start. But for me, I felt that America was used and worn out, coming to the end of a mighty, bloody war.

        “I resolved to take passage and begin anew in another land. England seemed to me a civilized and gracious place from all I had heard and read. The people spoke English, the nation was Christian and slavery had been outlawed many years before. Thus I came here and made this place my home,” he finished, “and it was a very good home indeed. Until now.”

        For a few minutes there was only the sound of his soft weeping. I reflected gravely that I was indeed fortunate to have been born John Watson, and not “Mr. Smith.”

        “And now someone has learned of your deception and threatens to reveal all,” Holmes observed, reaching for his pipe. “You are in fear that all you have built will crumble and—most importantly—that you will lose the love of your good wife.”

        “Yes!” He looked up, face hopeful, “You see my problem exactly. I admit, I came here as a last resort, but I did not think anyone could really be so clever as you were painted. I see now how wrong I was.” He leaned forward eagerly, “Tell me, Mr. Holmes, is there any way in which you might be able to help me?”

        “You have not told me all,” my companion pointed out, tamping down the tobacco in his bowl. “I can guess at the details—you not only fled north, you also absconded with something that did not belong to you, am I correct?”

        A shameful nod confirmed his supposition, “I felt that it was owed to me…had I been born of a legal union my father’s goods would have been split equally between me and his son.” His eyes hardened, “His son had everything while I had nothing—not even the means to make my mother’s last days comfortable! I was not greedy; I only took a silver dish and some money. I have since paid that back threefold in the money that has been extorted from me!”

        “Your father’s rightful heir is the one who is blackmailing you, is it not?”

        “Yes…I don’t know how he found me, but a month ago I received the first of a series of letters, threatening to tell my wife of my background if I did not leave money outside my gates. The nature of the letters made it clear who was behind it all, even if he did not come out and say so.”

        “He would merely serve to expose himself to action by the law if he did so,” Holmes pointed out, lighting his pipe. He drew on it thoughtfully, “I suppose you are not willing to approach the police regarding this matter?”

        “Oh, no!” He expostulated, “No, sir, Mr. Holmes! I cannot risk this becoming public knowledge—I stand to lose too much. My wife—she cannot ever know—I cannot risk losing her if she knew I have perpetrated a lie upon her these many years.” His eyes filled with tears, “And our children, what of them? If the world learned that their father was once a slave? They would be tainted forever more—“ He broke off with a harsh sob and we sat in silent commiseration.

        “It seems to me that there is not much we can do for you,” I ventured after some time, when he seemed to be calming down. “Your brother—forgive me—your father’s son has the upper hand and can keep you over a barrel indefinitely.”

        “Not so, Watson.” Holmes spoke casually, not seeming to notice my astonishment or the look of wild fear and hope on our guest’s face.

        “You—you see a way out for me then?”

        “Indeed. I just need to know three things.”

        “Anything, Mr. Holmes, anything!”

        “One; your blackmailer’s name and direction. Two; what proof he has of your true identity and the theft. Three; what you want done with him when we find him.”

        He seemed hardly to believe it. “Can it be that easy? Surely even the great Sherlock Holmes cannot save a man from a secret such as mine?”

        “His name, please?”

        “Hunicutt Transom. I—I do not know his address. I believe, as one of the letters was posted to me from London, rather than being left anonymously at my home in Kent as the others were, that he may be staying here. But I have made a few discreet inquiries at the more popular hotels and have not found him.”

        Holmes lips twisted, “I have a more assured method of locating him. Now, what proof does he have that he uses against you?”

        “None.”

        We regarded him blankly. Holmes was the first to recover, “What do you mean none? What threats has he made?”

        Smith passed a hand over his brow, “He threatened to reveal my true identity to my wife. He wrote that he would make it known from what humble beginnings I came. His last letter said he would alert the police that I was a known criminal fleeing persecution in America.”

        “But what proof of these things does he hold over your head, man!” Holmes cried in vexation. I confess I was equally annoyed. Here the fellow had sat, pouring out his sad tale of woe and painting a picture of a man who had been brought to the brink of ruin by darkest blackmail. What did he mean there was nothing but some letters?

        “He doesn’t have any proof,” Our visitor said, “At least, none that I can imagine. There was no record of my birth; no photographs were taken of me. But don’t you see, he has only to drop poison in the ears of others and I am ruined! Mr. Holmes, I have come to you and shared a secret I have told no one else…I am begging you for your help!”

        “You paid the man just because of your own fear of being caught out,” he said softly, almost as if to himself, looking lost in thought. “You fear others reviling you for something intrinsic in yourself you cannot change and yet which makes your union against the law.”

        “Yes,” Smith said in relief, “Yes, Mr. Holmes, that is it exactly! I—I am not _proud_ of myself for deceiving my wife and children, or my in-laws, but this world we live in…to them, if the truth were known, I would be an—an abomination.”

        I wanted to assure him this was not true, but I had traveled far and wide during my career in the Army; and my work as a doctor, and as Holmes’ companion, had taken me to dark places and revealed to me the sordid, hateful nature of many of this world’s residents. Those of us who were white, freeborn, male and middle-class or high-born had the most freedom to be obtained in this “free” land of ours. Perhaps Smith’s fears were well-founded.

        “What would you do with Transom if I find him?”

        “Nothing! I only wish him gone,” he groaned, “I thought him part of my past and had given him very little thought these many years. At one time,” he admitted, “I hated him. I hated him for all that he had that I had not, and I hated him for being his father’s son. But now I just wish him far from me, never to bother me again.”

        He provided, with some prompting, a description of his tormenter as he had appeared thirty years and more since, and admitted his own true name, which shall be omitted from my memoirs, that he receive his wish of being left in peace. He turned over to Holmes the much handled notes of grubby blackmail he had received.

        “Mr. Smith,” Holmes said, standing, “leave your card with the good doctor. I will come to you when this matter is settled.” He disappeared into his room, and left by some means other than the front door. I took our visitor’s particulars and sat myself down to wait.

        I did not see Holmes again for several hours, and it was growing late before I heard his step on the landing. I let out the breath I had not known I was holding when he stepped into the room; naturally he was wearing one of his many disguises, but by this time I can usually spot him.

        Not that I would ever confess it to him, but ever since his “death” and the lonely years I spent without him, I have an agitated and unsettled feeling whenever he is out of my presence for more than a few hours. I can but imagine the derision with which this would be received, and thus I have refrained from sharing my “mawkish sentimentality” as he was wont to describe it years past.

        “Ah, you waited up,” he said as he always does, as if I do not always wait for him. “Excellent, I wanted to share with you my findings.”

        “Which are?” I asked eagerly, stirring up the fire despite the warm evening. There was something very timeless and comforting about sitting before the fire with him, two old bachelors together. Not that he is old; he is but barely forty, and still a fine and vigorous man. I have sometimes fancied that my association with him will keep me young and active forever.

        “I have located Mr. Hunicutt Transom,” he said with satisfaction. In truth I know that part of it is satisfaction with himself, but it is also that he enjoys my amazement at his perspicuity. I rather suspect that he knows I am playacting, and I further deduce that he enjoys it as much as I do. We share a smile and he continues.

        “It was easily done. I adjourned to the newspaper offices and combed the back issues of the arrivals lists and lo and behold, six weeks ago a Mr. Hunicutt Transom of Virginia arrived on the _Britannic_. From there I was able to locate his hotel with ease and it was the simple matter of talking to the right people and I followed his trail—now under an assumed name—to a grotty little boarding house in Limehouse.”

        “Marvelous,” I complimented, handing him a whiskey. He took it absentmindedly.

        “I ascertained that he is still lodging there and I intend on confronting him tomorrow. Will you join me?”

        “With pleasure,” I said with spirit, relishing the idea of perhaps working the foul blackmailer over a bit. It had been too long since I exercised a little judicious force. “What’s wrong with tonight?”

        Holmes’ blue eyes, already bright with anticipation, lit up and he laughed richly, reaching out to pat my knee. “Ah, dear Watson, I can always depend on you to approach every situation head on and with manly determination to overcome any obstacle.”

        “I’m trying to work out if that’s a compliment or an insult,” I admitted, when he asked me why I was silent. His face creased with one of his rare, but beautiful, smiles, and he patted me again, this time on the arm.

        “A compliment, I do assure you, my fine fellow. You’re the best of the best, Watson, and I should be lost without you.” He smiled at me, his eyes warm, and I flushed with pleasure. Compliments from Holmes are rare but precious.

        “But why do we not approach him tonight?”

        “The reasons are twofold: one, if perchance he has been following our Mr. Smith, I do not want him to be alarmed if he saw him come to visit us. It may be that he knows who lives at this famous address and if so I want him to think that I did not take the case.”

        “Sound,” I complimented. “And the other reason?”

        “It grows late and you were yawning over your letter when our visitor arrived.” He gave me a half smile, “Let us to bed, dear chap, and we shall embark upon the hunt early on the morrow.”

        I blushed and protested that I was hearty enough yet to give chase that very instant. But he insisted it would do us no harm to rest and I allowed myself to be persuaded. At forty-five I am several years his senior, and having been invalided home from Afghanistan with a wound which troubles me still at times, I sometimes fear that Holmes will find I slow him down and he will abandon all ideas of asking for my help. The notion feels me with fear. I long only to be of use to him.

        Much refreshed, the following day we breakfasted and hastened by hansom cab to the seedy district in which our quarry was hiding. The narrow lanes were impassible to our conveyance, and we continued on foot for the last mile or two. I was looking about keenly, having not been in this area of town in the daylight. The narrow roads bustled with rather a motley crew of street-walkers, sailors, merchants and Chinese. I saw several dark Lascar faces and heard the babble of many tongues.

        The tall, narrow and somewhat rickety looking building which Holmes led us to looked like no place that a prosperous planter’s son would have cause to pause at, much less spend so much time in. I wondered just what, aside from greed and a desire for revenge drove this mysterious American.

        We entered through the rough tavern, drawing several curious looks; and when I saw one dark-browed and scurrilous looking individual eyeing Holmes slim figure—with his well-made clothing and fine watch displaying a discreet wealth—with an eye to something nefarious, I stepped in his path, hand on the butt of my gun. His surprised eye dropped to mine and I gave him an assessing look until he melted back into the crowd. Just so.

        “Watson, as ever you are a veritable bull-dog when it comes to my safety,” Holmes murmured from ahead of me as he mounted the narrow stairs. I had not even been aware he had witnessed the interplay.

        “Someone has to look out for you,” I said gruffly. He turned on the stairs and gave me a half smile. He stood a step above me, looking down, his narrow, sensitive face mostly in shadow, but for the gleam of those watchful eyes.

        “It wasn’t a complaint. It is very reassuring to know you always have my back. I would be lost without my biographer.”

        “Always, dear fellow,” I said, feeling a bit breathless. Must be the climb. I needed to lay off the port and cigars if a few stairs had me feeling out of breath. Of course, his oft repeated words of praise for my presence and my skills always left me somewhat lightheaded from the pleasure of his approbation. He always called me his biographer with such affection.

        At the end of the hall we stood on either side of a door and Holmes tapped on it, asking for Peter Riley in a nearly incomprehensible Cockney accent. He winked at me and when the door opened I threw myself through it with delight, bowling over the man who stood in the entrance. We fetched up against the wall opposite and his head rapped sharply on the wood.

        “How unfortunate,” Holmes tutted with false sympathy. “Watson, you brute.”

        My arm over Transom’s windpipe, I grinned back over my shoulder at him, aware of that wild feeling of elation these moments always brought. “I’m the muscle, you’re the brains, and don’t you forget it.”

        “Flex away,” he permitted, draping himself delicately over the room’s only chair.

        Transom was clawing at my arm—clearly he was no fighter, or he would have clawed at my eyes instead—and turning a bit blue. I thought how satisfying it would be to let him collapse unconscious, possibly tossing him out the window onto the filthy cobbles below, but resisted. We needed him awake. Scared, but awake.

        Released, he crumpled against the wall and gasped for a while. I straightened my clothes and looked menacing. Not difficult for me to do, for all that I am shorter than Holmes. I’m solidly built, strong from boxing, and have heard my features described as “heavy and somewhat hard.” I fancied my mustache would have made me look more the part, but Holmes hadn’t care for it and I shaved it off to please hi—that is, I tired of it and removed it.

        Transom finally found enough breath to speak, his voice rough, “Who the f—“

        I slapped him, “Watch your tongue.” Not that I minded rough language, but any excuse to smack this bounder was welcome. Sometimes I fear my own propensity for violence.

        “Who are you?” He amended, sidling away. There was nowhere to go, however, as I was between him and the window, and Holmes sat on the chair between him and the door. He lowered himself to the unmade bed and rubbed his throat. “What in blue blazes do you mean bursting in here and trying to kill me?”

        “If you feel you have been mistreated, perhaps you’d care to call for a policeman?” Holmes looked up from his casual contemplation of his nails. “No? I thought not. Hard to explain to them why a foreigner to this fair isle is staying in a hovel under an assumed name. Awkward questions might be asked.”

        “What I do is my own business,” he said sullenly, fidgeting as if he wanted to rise and take umbrage. I pushed him back down and he fell loose-limbed onto the bed, landing awkwardly and glaring up at me. I thought I saw the flash of something dangerous in his eyes, but he didn’t move again.

        “Not when it involves one of our most respected businessmen,” Holmes corrected, “You have been attempting to cast aspersions on the family history and good name of my client and he has engaged me to persuade you to desist.”

        Transom sneered, his dissipated face looking even more weasel-like than before. I could see no resemblance between this man and Smith. It seemed that one took after the sire while the other did not. I thought it showed tremendously the influence of our client’s beloved mother on the nature of her son that he was willing to endure blackmail and fear all alone in an effort to protect his family, while his brother tormented this good man for spite.

        “Respected businessman,” he barked out a laugh, “Good name! He sure has the wool pulled over your eyes. I don’t suppose he told you the truth about himself, did he?”

        “Why don’t you tell me?” Holmes invited, looking vaguely bored. I leaned against the rickety dresser and settled in.

        “His wh—“ he glanced at me, and started over, “His mother was a slave, and so was he. When the war was nearly over he turned his back on all the good things my father had done for that ungrateful pair of—“  another uneasy glance my way. I cracked my knuckles and he swallowed. “Your _noble_ client took off in the night with things he stole from my father! He ignored that he was a sick old man with hardly any help left after most of the ungrateful swine lit out. I came home from war and found my father all but alone.”

        “That isn’t quite how he tells it,” Holmes informed him.

        “Yeah, well he wouldn’t, would he? No darky ever could tell the straight truth!” He flinched when I took a step forward. “He stole and he went off and passed himself off as a white man. He married a white woman! Where’s your pride? Why doesn’t that bother you?”

        “He tried to better his circumstances and he did. He has been a successful and productive member of our country, a dedicated and loving husband and father and since you started your campaign of fear, he has paid you more than he stole. Has he not, Mr. Transom?”

        “That doesn’t matter! He can’t get away with it!”

        “What is your proof of your claims?” Holmes inquired, “Surely you don’t expect us to take the word of some foreigner living in our country under a false name who is making wild accusations against a well-respected member of our merchant class?”

        “I don’t need proof!” Transom shouted, losing his temper, “It’s my word against a lying, thieving—“

        “Listen here, you little blighter—“ I began, out of patience with the pipsqueak. But I never got to finish my sentence; Transom suddenly exploded off of the bed, brandishing a pistol. Before I could dive for him or call out a warning, he pointed the gun at me and fired!

        My own good reflexes saved me; even as the bullet whistled past my side, I was barreling toward him. I would have had him too, if I had just been a few seconds quicker. Fast as a scalded cat, he sprang from the bed, and I landed on the mattress, the flimsy bed collapsing under me. I was aware of another gunshot, Holmes’ yell and the scrabble of feet.

        I managed to untangle myself from the bed and gain my feet. Holmes was dashing toward the window, where Transom had disappeared in a twinkling. I was but a step behind him and we saw the scoundrel shimmying down a rope he had secured to the waterspout beside his window. Without stopping to think, I pushed Holmes out of the way and threw my leg over the sill. “Go down the stairs!” I barked, and swung myself out into space, clutching the rope.

        All would have been well if I were a thinner man.

        With a hideous screech the waterspout tore loose from the shingled wall and as I dropped the rope tore through my hands. I lost my grip and fell, trying to tuck myself.

        Luckily I didn’t have too far to fall, and I landed well, rolling and absorbing most of the impact. Still and all, it wasn’t the most welcome sensation. Shaking off my disorientation, I jumped to my feet and looked around. Transom was just disappearing around the corner, headed for a noisome alleyway. With his head start, and given that my ankle appeared to be somewhat bruised, he might have had a chance of outrunning me, except that I was thoroughly annoyed now.

        By the time Holmes had joined me, I had frog-marched a significantly bruised Transom over to the fallen waterspout and had cut off a section of rope to bind his hands with. He was hollering and wailing, claiming I had tried to kill him. When I cheerfully pointed out that he had fired a gun at me he shut up.

        It was many tiresome hours later that we finally gained our own home.

        “What a day!” I exclaimed, limping up the stairs with my arm around my good friend’s shoulders. For someone so slim he was well-muscled. I often forget that he is a skilled fencer and a boxer in his own rights.

        “A job well done, eh, Watson?” Holmes fumbled to unlock the door. Both Mrs. Hudson and Billy appeared to be absent, as neither had appeared to greet us.

        “A very good job. I fancy a stretch in Pentonville for libeling a fine English gentleman and attempting to murder ourselves will quiet Transom’s desire for blackmail. You’re sure Gregson is willing to keep Smith’s name out of it?”

        “He gave me his personal assurance. Here we are, sit down here in your chair, and let me tend to your wounds, dear fellow.” He called from the kitchen, “It was pure bad luck that Transom stumbled upon Smith’s shipping office as the one which he chose to try and set up overseas business with—when he saw the picture of a younger Smith in the lobby he was struck by his resemblance to the young man he had known.”

        “What a blackguard, to try and ruin a man’s reputation for paltry revenge over a pittance.” I eased off my shoes and rubbed my sore ankle.

        I oversaw the execution of Holmes’ care for my battle scars. Not only had I badly bruised my left ankle, but I had received several nasty bruises and scrapes. My hands were burned from the rope and I had a graze in my side from the first bullet Transom fired—I had been so angry at the time that I didn’t feel it until Holmes came upon us and exclaimed in fear at my bloody clothing.

        After instructing him on how to properly bind my ankle, I let him help me out of my coat and waistcoat, and divested myself of my vest. Sitting in our parlour in only my socks and trousers felt wildly intimate and I cursed my fair skin as I became aware I was blushing. A man as observant as Sherlock Holmes could hardly be unaware that I was discomfited, but he did not remark on my state.

        Very matter of factly he began to wash my scraped hands in the bowl of hot water he had fetched. I winced a bit but remained still. His hands were gentle as he blotted my hands dry and gentler still as he lightly dabbed my palms with ointment. My breathing became a little heavier and I wished suddenly that I were anywhere else. Why did not Mrs. Hudson come in? The woman always seemed to be popping in and out. Or Billy, where was he with a client when you needed him?

        “Watson, you seem agitated,” Holmes observed in a soft voice, his dark head bent over my hands. “Am I hurting you?”

        “Not at all,” I blustered, speaking too loudly. Damn this peaceful solitude. It allowed all the thoughts I kept firmly locked away to come begging for my attention. _It’s nothing_ , I thought desperately, _he’s only holding your hands to render aid_. But that did not explain why his own hands trembled, nor why I was filled with a wild, terrified excitement.

        “Then you are scared,” my friend said quietly, beginning to wind bandages lightly around my hands. “I am scaring you.”

        _Yes_ , I wanted to say, because it was true. But it was a delicious fear and my heart was racing. “Of course not, Holmes.”

        He dropped to his knees and knelt between my thighs, drawing close to inspect the light flesh wound in my side. “You need only clean that,” I said unsteadily, “a bit of ointment and a light bandage will suffice.” I tried for a joke, “No stitches necessary, so I won’t have to fear your chance to take revenge for all the cuts I’ve stitched on you.”

        “As if I would hold it against you,” he said dryly. Gently he began to clean my side, and I sucked in a breath, shocked at how _good_ it felt to have those hands on me.

        “Why were you so intent on helping Mr. Smith?” I asked breathlessly, trying to distract myself and him.

        “I hate blackmailers, they are cowards and scoundrels,” he said.

        “Yes, but we’ve worked on cases where clients were being blackmailed before,” I pointed out, “I think it was something particular about our Mr. Smith that touched you.” I furrowed my brow, recalling his words the day before, “’You fear others reviling you for something intrinsic in yourself you cannot change and yet which makes your union against the law,’” I looked at him, “You seemed to feel an affinity for his plight.”

        Looking up at me, his face seemed sad, and without thinking I reached out a bandaged hand and touched his cheek, “Why do you look like that?” I asked. Without my permission my voice had sank to a whisper, and my hand, instead of dropping to my side, lingered, my thumb lightly grazing his high, taut cheekbone. What a face the man had! Like one of Botticelli’s angels come to life. _Drop your hand_ , my sensible side urged, _this moment is too fraught_. And so it was, but damned if I would shy away.

        “John,” my friend said, looking so close and yet as distant as the moon, “If you knew something about me that would make others recoil in disgust and speak my name with derision, would it change how you viewed me?”

        “You’ve never called me John before,” I was stunned. I saw the quickly hidden look of fear and dismay on his face and I returned to his question. “Sherlock,” I dared respond by using his Christian name, a name I had never uttered aloud. “Rest assured that though the entire world stood against you, I would remain at your side.”

        His dark lashes quickly veiled his eyes, but not before I saw the tears leap into them. “You are—“ he broke off, his voice cracking, and I leaned closer still, my arm going around him as naturally as if we had always embraced. Bracing his forehead against my chest, he continued in a voice thick with emotion, “Dearest John, you are more than I deserve, more than I ever thought I would be allowed—“

        I spoke when it was clear he could not. My heart thundered in my chest, I was aware of my rapid pulse, a dizziness and elation that gripped me tightly. This was a moment from which we could not return.

        “May I deduce you, my old friend?”

        He shook his head in the affirmative, his curls brushing my lips, for I had my head ducked to speak in his ear. I closed my eyes and spoke low, just loud enough for him to hear me. “Last summer, when Wilde was going through his trouble in the courts—“ His quickly indrawn breath signaled I was on the right track, and without thinking about it my hand began soothingly rubbing his back. “You followed the trials and scandal keenly…for all that you tried to affect disinterest, I know you well. I noticed in you a deep melancholy, for which nothing I did seemed to lighten.” I brought my hand up and stroked his hair, silken and fine against my rough hands, the heat of his skull radiating to my fingers. “You have never, not once, to my knowledge, expressed interest in the fairer sex.”

        Sherlock stopped breathing and I thought that surely he must be aware that I myself was in the grip of a very strong emotion. “Even Irene Adler, with all her charms and her beauty…what you remarked upon was her cunning, her intelligence.” I tentatively brought my other hand up and cupped his face, tilting his head so he was looking at me.

        His eyes were devastating. The expression of fear, longing, hope and terror…they would have brought me to my knees if I had not already been seated. “Are you an invert?”

        A breath escaped him on a sigh, those perfect lips quivered as if he would speak but he only nodded once in assent. I wanted to close my eyes rather than look on him and witness such courage and to see, further, the look on his face which seemed to say that despite my assurance he was waiting for my judgement. But if he could be so valiant then how could I do less?

        “I know I am a fool,” I said, swallowing with difficulty, “An old fool at that, but you have told me more than once that I have a blind courage you lack and so I will be courageous this one time more and ask you—“ My voice failed me for a moment and I swallowed, coughed, and then hoarsely continued. “I will ask you, Sherlock, if you love me?”

        “John…John,” was all he said, but my name on his lips was more than enough and in the next moment he was in my arms and our lips were touching and every forbidden and long-denied feeling I had ever had for him, my dearest friend, surged in me wild as the Atlantic during a storm. It should have been foreign, strange, unnatural but it was tender, wild, sweet and my heart threatened to tear out of my chest with joy.

        “I have loved you for so long,” Sherlock gasped when we parted. At some point he had come to be across my lap and he was curled quite beautifully against me, one hand on my bare chest. I knew he could feel my heart beating under his hand and that he was aware of just how affected I was. “The happiness we shared in these walls has been the finest, the dearest I have known…losing you to marriage took more courage than I thought I had to give.”

        I could not apologize for my marriage to sweet Mary, but I knew what he meant. There were ways in which leaving him had been harder than losing her. It does not make me proud to admit that, but I will be honest here if nowhere else. “You do not have to fear losing me again,” I vowed, kissing his lips lightly; the passion which leapt between us like a flame flared into life and I hungrily supped at his lips. Now that I had tasted what I long denied to myself I even wanted, I felt like a starving man at a banquet.

        Expressing this aloud caused a flush of blood to my cheeks, but he was so pleased that I could not but take joy in my courage. Sometime later, the fire on the hearth burning down but the one between us still bright and warm and hot, he excused himself from “pressing upon” me and “aggravating your wound.” When he would have left my arms I laughed and pulled him back and dismissed it as nothing.

        “Too long have I wanted to experience the sweetness of your kiss to let you go so quickly,” I vowed, running my hand over his very fine chest. His eyes widened in surprise, and when I kissed the side of his neck and suckled gently at the tender skin behind his ear his sigh was audible.

        “I can see you came by your reputation as a lover honestly, John,” he teased, ruffling my hair and tweaking my nose. “You are a devastating man when you’re ‘roused.”

        “You have no idea, Sherlock,” I quite growled in his ear and relished his shiver. “I never suspected that you yourself could be so affectionate.”

        “When your every glance and word could spell doom, you learn circumspection,” he said a bit sadly. I kissed him again, both to soothe and because I could not bear to think of the years of sadness, the loneliness and fear he had had to endure.

        “We have a solid reputation as a pair of friends and colleagues,” I reminded him briskly, “As you yourself have often pointed out, people will see what they expect to see. In this case it is a bachelor and a widower living comfortably together to afford expenses.” His lightened expression caused me to smile in relief, though I knew that circumstances—and his melancholy nature—would no doubt cause a return of his doubts and fears.

        “It is hard for me to believe,” Sherlock confessed sometime later, when he had returned to cleaning and bandaging my side, “That I can touch you and look at you without fear.”

        “I invite you to touch me and look at me as much as you wish,” I winked and his quicksilver grin flashed out and we laughed happily together.

        All will not always be so easy; there will be days when his dark moods descend, occasions when we are forced to portray ourselves as just friends. The world will not, in our lifetime, I fear, and perhaps never, come to regard us as anything other than unnatural. But we will have this, these quiet, tender moments when it is just us two; days and nights in 221B when we can shut out the world, just John and Sherlock; a lifetime together, please God.

        Others may say it is wrong, but I know that to love this man and be loved by him in return is the finest thing I can ask of life.

       


End file.
